


On The Night Of A Death

by starstruck1986



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstruck1986/pseuds/starstruck1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pairing: Harry/Ron<br/>Rating: PG-13<br/>Content/Warnings: Angst, other character death, first time.<br/>Word count: ~1,746<br/>Summary: On the night of Dumbledore's death, Harry reaches out for comfort from an unexpected source...<br/>Note: Set during HBP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Night Of A Death

**On The Night of a Death**  
  
“You should be asleep,” Ron murmured, rubbing his eyes as he approached Harry, curled up on the bench windowsill at the window in between their beds.  
  
He shivered as cool night air washed over him from the window Harry had opened. For summer, it was too cold. Or maybe it was just what had happened that evening which seemed to make the world that bit chillier.  
  
“So should you,” Harry replied, his tone dull. He didn't pull his eyes from the castle grounds.  
“Can't sleep.” Ron turned and perched on the end of the padded seat, not caring that half of his backside was on Harry's feet. Harry didn't move them.  
  
“Tomorrow's going to be long, and shit.” Ron didn't know why he was bothering to talk. He was fairly sure that Harry wasn't listening to a single word he said. “You need to rest, mate.”  
  
Harry surprised him by shaking his head. “No point. All I can see is green light and him sailing off the top of that tower...”  
  
Ron had no reply for him; his own mind was chucking up the same images, even though he'd not been there to see Dumbledore's death. He braced his hands on his knees and looked down at his feet, which were bare and grey in the darkness of the dormitory.  
  
He had seen Harry mourn enough times, but he still didn't know how to cope with it. He didn't know how to make it better and it drove him up the wall. There was nothing he could do to wipe the sorrow from the green eyes or put colour back into the boy's cheeks. Since they were fourteen, Ron had been searching for the answers. At seventeen, he still hadn't found any. He did the only thing he could think of, and reached his hand out to settle it on Harry's bent knee.  
  
If Harry noticed or minded it, he didn't show it. His eyes remained trained on the stillness beyond the window panes, on the grounds which had been quiet for at least three hours. Ron wanted to ask what he was watching for but knew the question wouldn't be answered.  
  
It was Ron's turn to stay quiet when Harry's hand came up to sit on top of his own. It was cold and Ron's immediate reaction was to cover it with his remaining free hand, to warm it, to make it better. Harry's eyes finally landed on him and Ron felt his cheeks burn in a blush.  
  
“You're cold,” he said, defensively, looking at their joined hands. “I just...”  
“I'm freezing.” Harry said nothing further, and also looked at their hands.  
“Want me to charm your bed? I think I can do it without setting it on fire this time...” Ron suggested with half a smile. The joke failed to raise any kind of response from Harry.  
“I want...” Harry trailed off and then shook his head.  
“Tell me what you want, and I'll help you get it,” Ron encouraged. He would do anything for Harry at that moment, he thought. Anything to make him look less vulnerable.  
  
Ron looked up to Harry, even though they fought. Even though he was as jealous as all hell, sometimes. He idolised his best friend and might even admit it, if he was hard pushed enough. When Harry looked vulnerable, it scared him, because everything seemed to be cast in a shadow of doubt.  
  
“I just want to sleep and be warm,” Harry said finally. “And not be alone.”  
  
There was a nervous look in his direction and Ron blinked.  
  
“We're all in here with you,” he said. “Me, Neville, Seamus, Dean... we're all here. You're not alone.”  
“I mean not alone in the bed.” The words were fraught.  
“Do you want me to sneak Ginny in?” Ron asked weakly, the very suggestion turning his stomach as he mentioned his little sister.  
“No. I want you.”  
  
Something akin to pride soared through Ron's chest then and, without further thought, he nodded. As quietly as he could, he helped Harry to his feet and they walked slowly to the abandoned bed together. He climbed in first, moving as far over to the edge as he could without falling out. He held up the covers for Harry to follow him. As the bed took the weight of a second body, the wood gave a shudder, and expanded noiselessly to a size accommodating of them both.  
  
“Did you know they did that?” Ron asked in a whisper, thinking that if the founders had been trying to discourage sex in the dormitories, expanding beds weren't in favour of their cause.  
“Nope.” Harry wriggled down on the mattress and pulled the covers close to him.  
  
Ron settled his head in the pillow and remained on his side, appreciating the extra warmth which began to creep over him from Harry's body. After a few silent minutes, the heat became soporific, and he had to fight to keep his eyes open. He did so though, because he didn't want to leave Harry awake by himself. The bed gave a squeak as Harry turned to face him. Their knees clashed.  
  
His breath caught in his throat when he realised just how close Harry had come. He could feel breath puffing against his face. He jumped when he felt a hand make a fist in the front of his t-shirt, pulling him even closer.  
  
“Harry... what...”  
“Just shut up, please.”  
  
Only the desperation in the tone made Ron follow the order. He let Harry pull at him until he was nearly pressing the smaller boy onto his back, their faces only millimetres apart. Ron had no choice but to put his arm over Harry's side.  
  
It seemed, with the simple act of physical necessity, some sort of signal had been interpreted by his best friend. Harry grabbed him with both hands, closing any marginal distance which had been left between them. Their noses clashed. Before it happened, Ron thought he could imagine the taste of Harry's lips, but when it did happen, they were warmer than he had expected. Harry kissed him with such tenderness that it stunned him still. They remained locked in position, painfully aware of the room, which was quiet but for the sounds of their own breathing and that of the other sleeping boys.  
  
Ron closed his eyes. There was comfort in that kiss. It seemed to reach right into his mushy, bloody, inner body, heating his blood and soothing his frazzled mind. He angled his head, by proxy turning Harry's too, and leant forward with all his weight. Harry allowed himself to be pressed into the mattress and even turned slightly to make it easier for Ron to lie there. Warmed hands slid down his back, over his t-shirt; on his hips they rested for a moment, before moving back up and sneaking beneath the cotton to his skin.  
  
He didn't recognise the moan which came out as his own, but the shudder of pleasure he felt. He swung one leg over both of Harry's, straddling him. The kiss continued, both of them breathing hard through their noses. Ron couldn't help his tongue's eagerness when it flicked at the crease in Harry's lips. The advance was willingly accepted.  
  
They broke apart when Ron leant back so that he could take in Harry's face. He reached up and found his thumb pulling gently at Harry's lower lip, moving it in different directions. He watched it, concentrating on the glistening inner flesh and the soft, slightly puffed outer skin which he had just been kissing. Somewhere in his crotch, something began to throb.  
  
“What is this?” he breathed finally, leaning close again. He rested his forehead against Harry's.  
“I don't know,” Harry whispered in response. “I don't know... I just wanted... wanted to feel.”  
“And what do you feel now?” Ron murmured, wondering if somewhere along the line, he'd forgotten getting drunk. He _felt_ drunk; his head was woozy.  
“Loved.” The word was almost silent.  
“I do love you,” Ron said immediately.  
“You'd do anything for me,” Harry stated.  
“I always have.”  
“And now you're doing this.”  
  
Ron didn't have an answer for that. He remained still and silent, taking in Harry's face beneath his own. Round glasses had gone askew at some point and dark hair was all over the place. He would have looked mad if it wasn't for the deep, sorrowed grounding of Harry's eyes.  
  
“Stay here?” Harry pleaded.  
“I'm not going anywhere.”  
  
The kiss was fervent when it came. Ron allowed his tongue to be sucked lightly on the tip and allowed Harry to properly explore his mouth. Hands cupped his cheeks and fingers crept into his hair. Some of them stroked his scalp. Ron found he couldn't keep his delight in. In the warm, in that moment, being given that kiss, the rest of the world didn't exist. The roll of Harry's hips was welcome, if startling. The sudden pressure in his cock was painful. He ground down, gasping slightly at the friction.  
  
“Sometimes, I think about you when I come,” Harry whispered.  
  
Ron jerked as light exploded behind his eyelids, and he came himself, without a proper touch to his erection, or really, any provocation at all. He stuffed his face into Harry's chest and shivered until the spasms stopped. His mind was racing, full of images of Harry, lying there in that very bed, wanking until he came, and thinking of him as he did so.  
  
“I'm so tired...” Harry murmured, and when Ron lifted his head, he saw Harry's eyes had closed.  
  
Gently he tugged the glasses from his friend's face, and threw them out of the drapes which gave the bed privacy. He rearranged himself on his side, holding Harry in his arms. He was shattered, but his eyes refused to close again. He could only look at the sleeping boy by his side, and wonder if what had just happened would ever exist come the morning. He could be dreaming. Harry could forget in his sleep.  
  
What confused Ron the most was that he didn't want to be dreaming, and he didn't want Harry to forget, and he wanted it, oh so dearly, to happen again.  
  
-fin-


End file.
